


The Wait

by cynomynn



Category: Batman: Arkham Asylum (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, One Shot, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynomynn/pseuds/cynomynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Joker waits for Batman on a rooftop in Gotham. The plan has been set in motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wait

_ Cold _ , he thinks.

He's sitting out in Gotham's bitter chill; he's been here for hours. If he were crazy, he'd think that the city itself was trying to make him back down. The parka he’s wearing isn't helping, and he's starting to think that at least some of the cold is coming from his own dead heart.

It's dark, and he can't see for shit, but that doesn't bother him. The plan's already in motion. Everything rests on the goons, now, and on _him_.

He shivers for the thousandth time, wishing balefully that _the plan_ involved a heater and some hot chocolate, and that he wasn't starting to sound like the snowman.

He drifts off, just for a while, and none of the goons _dare_ shake him awake. His red-and-black bitch has warned them against that; he hasn't slept in weeks and she's worried.

He dreams of darkness and blood and knives and laughter and _warmth,_ the kind he hasn't felt in years. Not without drugs or _him_ , anyway.

His green eyes are open slivers while he sleeps. They're never all the way closed; he's learned from experience that that's too dangerous. The gravel roof is an ungodly amount of uncomfortable. He wakes up and stretches like a cat; there's ice on his parka that shortens his range of movement. He checks the smiley-faced watch on his wrist; he's still got several _hours_ to wait. He curls back into himself and breathes on his hands, trying to warm them up.

He can hear screams from across the city, and he grins wickedly. He knows that the plan could've, _should've_ , waited until summer, or at least spring. Winter brings cold, and the cold brings out some of the other villains; ones he couldn't have interfering this time. But good _god_ , were those screams satis _fy_ ing.

Goons come to whisper updates in his ear from time to time, but he waves them away. Or shoots them, if they're _too_ persistent.

One of the men lies right next to him, his mortal wound steaming into the midnight air. The sight of blood warms him up a _lit_ tle, but not _near_ ly enough. He laughs a little to himself, and it's hard for him not to hear the city laughing with him.

He sits for hours, reminiscing now that he can't sleep. He remembers the good schemes, the ones that end up with him escaping _his_ clutches by a hair's breadth, _warm_ on the inside and out, ivory cheeks tinged pink with a combination of exertion and excitement. He remembers the bad ones, the ones that fade to black with him shivering in a white straight jacket in a cell next to plant-girl; the ones that just aren't funny.

He recounts some of them to the dying man next to him, his sometimes-gravelly-sometimes-falsetto voice weaving a tale of misery and the darkest humor for his _lucky_ audience. The goon shivers and dies right as story time ends.

He feels an explosion rock the building under him. He hears screams of pain, from _his_ goons this time. He feels heavy Kevlar boots _pound_ ing up the rooftop stairs, imagines a cape as _black_ as the night swirling just above the ground, and he knows the second part of _the plan_ is wrapping up ever so nicely.

He can't _wait_ for the final act.


End file.
